Bring Him Home -Rewritten-
by MentalMeles
Summary: England, frustrated with the war against America, goes to a forest to calm himself down, only to find what he had been trying to escape. - Inspired by the APH CMV 'Bring Him Home' by DemonsWithTea - Rated K Plus for mentioning war and death -


_**Inspired by the Hetalia CMV, Bring Him Home, by DemonsWithTea. Watch it here: /watch?v=NzVRgxw8MXY**_

 _ **Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**_

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It was September 19, 1777, ten miles below the colonist city of Saratoga. England and a large invasion army, led under General John Burgoyne, were travelling south to meet with a similar force coming from New York when they encountered a group of Virginian sharpshooters. Not only that, but during the fight, more colonist rebels suddenly appeared, capturing England and his men by surprise, and engaged in the battle violently. In the end, only a handful of his men had managed to survive and England was livid that he had allowed the group of rebels to win.

To try and get away from his anger, England asked for and was granted permission by his general to take a quick walk through the woods. The woods always seemed to calm the nation down and he rationalized that it was better than just letting his emotions get out of hand. So, he walked, careful to not let himself to get too off guard for the threat of running into more of the rebels. England frowned at the thought of them before shaking his head. No, he didn't want to think about them now. He wanted a break away from them and from the one they were fighting for. That was his whole reasoning for walking through these woods, after all. No, he didn't want to think about the rebels and he most certainly didn't want to think of _him_.

But then, England suddenly found himself coming to a halt. His eyes widened and he froze. His heart pounded against his chest and his breath roared in his ears. There, at the foot of a tree, not too far away from where he was standing, was the very person he was trying to avoid.

America.

England immediately reached for his gun, but soon realized that he was asleep. He blinked, surprised and confused. Upon closer inspection, America had a gun in his arms and a colonial flag at his side. It seemed that boy had intended to join the previous battle, but accidentally fell asleep waiting for it to happen. Either that or he had been there and grew tired from fighting and accidentally fell asleep. The boy looked peaceful as he slept, his breathing slow and rhythmic. He also looked rather young and delicate, as if he couldn't hurt a single soul in the world. If England didn't know any better, he would've thought the boy didn't belong out here and that he should go home to his mother and father immediately before something bad happened to him.

But England was no fool.

He had lived for a long time now and he had seen it happen over and over again. As nations, they had no choice but to fight, to cause pain, and to kill, even if they didn't want to and now that America had challenged England, he was certainly no exception. Deep down, England knew that if America was to suddenly wake up, he most likely wouldn't hesitate to shoot his former guardian dead.

Despite these thoughts, however, England walked forward, reached out, and slowly rested a careful hand on the sleeping boy's head. America stirred only for a moment before going back into his peaceful state. They both stayed like that for a moment, silence enveloping them. England quietly studied America as he continued to sleep, moving his hand from America's head to brush his wild blonde hair away from his eyes. America had changed. He hadn't changed much of course, but England could see it better now that he was this close to him. His face looked older than he remembered, his shoulders were a tad bit broader, and, even though he was sitting, England was sure that he had grown taller too.

"He really isn't a child anymore," he quietly thought. Suddenly, England's frown deepened. "I could shoot him right now if I wanted to. I could shoot him and all of this would be over."

With the thought in his mind, England closed his eyes and took a deep breath before removing his hand from America's face and standing. He took a few steps back and, like in a dream, slowly pulled out his gun. In that single moment, everything else faded. The sun could have fallen from the sky and set the world ablaze and he wouldn't have noticed. He wouldn't have cared. All of his attention was on the sleeping boy that lay before him as he aimed for between his eyes. In that single moment, victory was right there in his grasp and all he had to do was pull the trigger. All he had to do was kill the boy that insisted he was a man and longed to be something terrible. All he had to do was kill the boy that longed to be a nation.

But how could he?

How could he ever hurt the boy he had come to know as his family, as his brother? How could he ever hurt the boy that had cried for him, laughed with him, and depended on him? It was impossible, even with his finger on the trigger and America as alone and unprotected like this. England cursed under his breath and finally lowered his gun, suddenly bitter and angry with himself again. Why couldn't he shoot him? It's not like he hadn't killed someone before and it certainly wasn't like he hadn't shot someone before. He knew he was capable of doing it, so why couldn't he? For God's sake, the boy's people had killed the majority of the group he was just with! Frustrated, England glared down at America; peaceful, young, and delicate. Silence befell them once again and England resisted the urge to shake him, scream at him, tell him to stop playing this game and to let him bring him home this instant. What felt like an entirety passed before England suddenly sighed.

"Well, I suppose I could at least give him a fair fight, even if his men aren't playing fair," he whispered. "I _am_ a gentleman, after all."

So, with a heavy and bitter feeling in his heart and one final look at the boy, England walked back to his men and refused to look back. Due to this, however, England didn't see America stir. He didn't see America's blue eyes slowly flutter open before he sat up, yawned, and carefully rubbed them. He didn't see still as America quickly became confused, wondering why his eyes and cheeks were damp and why he had a strange feeling in his chest that made his heart ache.

"This feeling," America muttered, suddenly gripping the gun in his lap a bit too tightly, "what was the word England used for it again?"


End file.
